If Wishes Were Riders
by Eibii
Summary: Hard is the journey of a Hunter. Harder still, is the journey of his equine companion...


Disclaimer: I do not own "Vampire Hunter D". (I'm certain that if I did, I'd be dead with a 7-foot sword jammed through my skull as penance for one too many soppy tacklehugs.) VHD is property of Hideyuki Kikuchi, Asahi Sonorama, that Comittee thing, etc., etc. Apologies to anyone I've forgotten.

_If Wishes Were Riders..._

by Eibii

Plod, plod, plod.

Oh, _God_, how I loathe this road.

I could only_ wish_ you could see what I see, as I take my burdens over yet another hill. A rock. Dust! Another rock! More dust, a lone footprint, dust, funny-coloured bug. This is no way to live. As if looking at the horizon will entertain me any more easily. Gray skies, dreary mountains, scruffy grass I can't totter over to eat because _you _have a _mission_. Phht!

You, O-He-Of-The-Damned-Cape-That-Gets-Tangled-In-My-Tail,Ye-With-A-Fencepost-Eternally-Jammed-Up-His-Backside, of the I'm-A-Halfbreed-With-A-Father-Who-Nanced-About-In-Opera-Cloaks-Boo-Hoo-Lineage - despite your pointed actions to feed on as few people as possible - seem to be growing heavier with every hunt. Pfeh. Maybe it's just my back. You _know _I should have had a tune-up at the last outpost - how far behind was that? Eighty kilometres - or was it eighty-one? You see, I can't seem to remember, because SOMEONE had to suddenly go on a mad chase after yet another gods-be-damned Rococo tosser in an ill-fitting tacky waistcoat who just happened to have a spatter of red on his cravat.

No, no, no, there apparently wasn't enough time to even reset my piddling trifle of a pedometre. I'll admit, feeling the numbers tick by gave me a certain sense of pride, of accomplishment - though accomplishing it for a thankless job such as this is hardly as enjoyable. It's stuck, stuck, stuck, at of all numbers, 32,034! I HATE that number! Well, then again, I suppose it isn't so bad... but _any_ number is loathesome when you have it staring you in the optic cones every bloody second.

Would oiling my poor, decrepit joints have hurt any, either, pray tell? You know that even your funny left front-hoof has been complaining about the squeaking noises when I'm most _uncerimoniously_ thrown into third gear - now how pitiful are my problems when _tha_ happens, I ask you, when your own _body _bitches about it?! Am I not worth a moment of compassion? An extra battery for my worn dynamo? A new spark plug or two once in awhile? Not even... dare I beg it of you... a carrot? (A FRESH one, mind you, not one that's been growing spindly roots in a mouldy stable storehouse - UGH!)

Well, maintenance has never been one of your finer points, I suppose. Just look at yourself! Vain as a cat and you won't admit it. Yes, yes, your own stupid mane (not half as silky or musky as mine) blows in the wind like ragged flags, your funny pointy sky-blinder makes you look like an ill-mannered tree, and you always look as though you've got rocks in your hooves. So _what?!_ GET OVER YOURSELF! LIKE YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE WHO'S EVER HAD A BAD DAY?! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO...

Pfaugh.

You and your bad days. You want to know what a bad day is? Enjoying yourself, running on soft grass with your own real legs, maybe a mare or two to keep company if th... harrumph, where was I? -- Drinking the very best filtered water, munching on the sweetest hay from hydroponic labs - and then a Lesser Dragon pops out of the trees, and decides you'd make a jolly good tea-time morsel! If I'd made that damned jump across the stream, and not been so - so - so SHAKY! Yes! Shaky with pride of fearlessly facing such a terror in the eye, naturally, what else? My legs gave in, so of course they had to go. The vet's anasthesia made me sneeze terribly so for a week afterwards, sodding allergies...

Harrumph! It was a very. Very! Very bad day.

And I'm betting it's somehow your fault, too, you eldritch ponce. So don't act like you're some tortured nancing beauty until _you_ get dragged off to the mechanic's someday...

-- Oh!

Oh! Oh my. W-what's that grey thing in the bush, something with scales no doubt - I think I heard a growl, quite distinctly -- there, RIGHT THERE, you stupid Neo-Gothic lump! IT'S RIGHT IN FRONT OF Y -- Ohhh, I get it, it's not blood-spattered, so of course you're ignoring it! It's not hopping about and shrieking, "Vampires! Oh, save me, please, while I trip on my bourgeois satin nightdress and bare far too much decolletage to remain modest! Help!" If you weren't so consumed with yourself, maybe you'd keep an eye out for danger instead of your latest excuse for self-pity or --!

_SPLURCHHHH!_

---

It was long past midday, when the tall, slim figure garbed in black darkened the doorway of the horse dealer's stablehouse. "Froederich's Bargain Beasties", the rickety sign above the door proclaimed in sloppily-painted orange letters. (A smaller sign below it declared "20 Off All Hoofpicks!" in equally-sloppy print.)

"Welcome!" A stocky, seedy-looking mustachioed fellow waved a meaty arm in greetings to the tall, slim figure silhouetted at the threshold. Another Hunter, he wagered - partly by the sword on his back, and partly by the excessive amounts of dried blood caked on his cloak. He carried a makeshift rucksack & saddle over his shoulder, both looking quite battered and scraped. (They were also rather sodden with blood as well, and looked and smelled far more fresh, he noted with a lurch of nausea - but Froederich tried to pay them no mind. In a god-forsaken outpost like this, a customer is still a customer - and may be a desperate, and possibly rich one at that.)

"I'm Froederich, of Froederich's Bargain Beasties," the man drawled in his mustiest tones, clenching a cigar in the side of his mouth. "Can I be interestin' you in our new KP-X-16 models t'day, Sir? We just got 'em in from a light refurbishing, they don't have that pesky hoof-rot problem that the previous releases --"

In the midst of Froederich's boisterious sales pitch, the Hunter strode forward, set his belongings and saddle upon the counter, and without any further mystery, pulled something out of the ragged flaps of the rucksack.

"... Sir!" The owner gave a rueful chuckle, and leaned forward.

There on the countertop, lay the dented and scratched remnants of a metallic spine - with a dented and scratched hip hydraulic at one end, and the most annoyed-looking mechanical horse's head at the other.

"I... _aquired_... this horse here, quite some time ago," the Hunter said, gesturing to the remnants. "I desire another."

"No bloody kidding! Some time, ya said? More like twenty years! Good gods! It's a wonder he didn't break down on his own! I never thought I'd lay eyes on 'im again - s'been years, now, eh, Darvin?" The dealer grumbled through his stogie, patting the mechanical skull of the horse between the ears. "Always have to pick a fight, doncha, boy?" All he got in return from the head was flattened ears and a feeble attempt at nipping his fingers - more or less the equine equivalent of a "sod you".

He grinned, undeterred, and looked back up - and up, for the new customer was much taller than he.

"Would ya fancy him to be repaired, perhaps? Or to give a new horse what's left of 'im, maybe?" The dealer's cigar dripped foul-smelling ash with every word.

"A trade-in would be preferable," the Hunter answered flatly.

"Ahhhh..." Froederich nodded, his gold tooth glinting in the weak sunlight. "Y'got your basics at 4,000, I suppose - takin' innta account, o' course, this hunk of junk, I'm afraid he's so bloody obselete he'll go fer less than 500..."

"Do you barter?"

"Well, for the right item, sure, but I doubt that's gonna happen anytime soon! Ya see, Sir, barterers are very scarce in these parts, what with them Werewolves tearin' up most of our business as o' late, an' ya can't hardly barter with most everyday --"

Out from the bloodied rucksack, the Hunter pulled out a most wondrous gray-green hide, gleaming with a fine coat of scales, still soft with moisture from the Lesser Dragon from whence it had been flayed. There must have been at least a good three square meters of the stuff flopped over the table, cleaned with care and prepared for a good and masterful tanning.

"I understand this would make for serviceable saddles," the Hunter said, quiet and expectant.

Froederich's stogie hit the floor, and smouldered into ash.

"Gods below and demons above! Quite the lucky one, you! - there's a new addition that Ol' Darvie'll go in well for," he murmured, jerking his head towards the stable entryway. "Have a look as you please, and do take whatever saddle ya fancy, they're tacked up next to the bridles, ye can be havin' of one o' them, too... Mister...?"

Froederich blinked at the empty space in front of the counter. The customer had already disappeared, leaving only remnants of dismantled horse and slain reptile behind. 'Darvin' snorted distastefully at the smell.

---

Oh, my! Oh, my goodness me. And who might you be, dear fellow?

Aren't you the tall, dark one. Do watch the cape, some of my neighbours seem to be a little indiscriminate with their rubbish. But oh! Not me, I assure you! Top-of-the-line model! Barely used! Very clean, very little to fuss over, I assure you! (And none of that dreadful hoof-rot, either - it was never contagious, despite what others may have told you, ungrateful customers, the lot of them...)

You look rather light, so if you're looking to try me out, I'll be happy to carry a fair loa -- Oi! If you would be so kind to take your hands out of my mouth, Sir! I am _fine_, I insist! I had a tune-up last week - truly!

Ptui!

Hmmph. Your hands taste... coppery? That's odd. I certainly hope you made liberal use of that hand sanitizer before you came in. I'm not sure I especially _like_ that taste in a rider...

_ FIN _

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This story (well, if you can call it that) was greatly inspired by a thread on the Vampire Hunter D Discussion Group, concerning the question of how many poor cyborg horses D has run into the ground in some manner or another. I kinda tossed it around in my head early one morning, and eventually banged out most of this story. (Then I left it to collect dust for a year or two, and remembered finally to write out the rest, but let's pretend that part didn't happen. koff) My apologies to any author I might be unconsciously aping - especially the dear late Douglas Adams, or Terry Pratchett.


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